Bromantic Tendencies
by sillynekorobs
Summary: A series of glimpses into the lives of best friends and pal-honchos.
1. Bromantic Tendencies

**AN:** I have decided to like Homestuck. I have decided to like John and Dave. I have decided that I like fics of them that are not sadstuck. So I decided I'll write one.

**Characters:** Belong to Andrew Hussie

/ - / - / - / - /

Your name is Dave Strider and you have just awoken from a NIGHTMARE.

**Dave: Scream like a little girl**

Most certainly not. But you do bolt upright in bed like you have just been shocked in the ass by an electric eel and stare warily around the darkness of your oh-so-coolkid room. This was not a nightmare left over from three years ago, when you and your three best friends played THE GAME THAT SHALL NOT BE NAMED and some very screwed up events seeped into your fragile teenage psyche. No, the nightmare you just experienced was entirely more sinister. You shudder lightly, gripping the edge of the blanket to your chest as you recall this nightmare in excruciating detail.

You were naked. In the shower. Washing yourself, like normal people with personal hygiene habits superior to swamp-wallowing warthogs tend to do. You were lathering up your ironic pink bath poof with ironic pink body wash when suddenly the curtain whooshed back and there, right beside you, was a smuppet of monolithic proportions. Its plush rump filled the whole damn bathroom as it stared at you over its freakishly long penile proboscis, and—

You are Dave Strider, and you need a BRO-CUDDLE. Like, now.

**Dave: Crawl in bed with your much-respected older sibling like sniveling toddler**

Hell no.

Not that Bro. He's probably snoring in the next room buried under a whole damn pile of smuppets like freaking Godzilla beneath Mt. Fuji, just waiting for an excuse to wake up and hit you with biohazard levels of radioactive puppet-breath.

No. You, Dave Strider, need a bro-cuddle from none other than your numero uno pal-honcho, JOHN EGBERT.

**Dave: Be in your closet**

Yes, sir, thank you, sir, you will. You grab your shades from the nightstand and you are ready for action, squeezing in among the miscellaneous clutter that you really do need to get out of there, because this closet is now used for IMPORTANT BSNS. In less time than it takes an armadillo to scuttle across a blistering Texan highway in front of an oncoming eighteen wheeler you are peeking out of an entirely different (and much tidier) closet, ironically thankful that your bestest best bro is less of a slob than you are.

**Dave: Reminisce **

It shouldn't come as any surprise that things are a little bit DIFFERENT for you and your friends after that giant shit-storm three years ago. What is a little bit surprising (or not) is that these differences are somehow only apparent when you are inside your own HOMES (or the HOMES of aforementioned friends). One day not long after said shit-storm subsided you were perplexed but undeniably pleased to discover that you had effortlessly, dare it be said instinctively, re-wound to a time three seconds before you were about to dump a bottle of apple juice on your keyboard.

Since this realization the four of you have used this information for the greater good of the four of you. (You would of course be cool and share your awesome Knight of Time-ness with the rest of the world, but as you cannot, you content yourself with freezing time long enough to eat John's Gushers before he can stop you.)

On the whole, being able to access one another's homes in seconds flat is entirely practical. Sure there are moments of derp when Jade's psychotic excuse for a good dog best friend decides to pop out of Rose's dress rack and chase her mutant cat around her wizard-infested domain wrecking indescribable havoc, and when the trolls decide to troll you they can now opt to do so in person for nearly unbelievable doses of obnoxious, but mostly the closet-linkage idea that was Egbert's bouncing baby brainchild is terribly useful.

Case in point, moments like these.

**Dave: Stop reminiscing and come out of the closet**

LaLonde wishes.

You scope your best bro's personal space in a way that is definitely not in the least bit creepy or stalker-ish and notice that it is DAMNED COLD in here. (This should also come as no surprise, as this is Washington and you are now about a bajillion and two miles further from Texas and its heat than you were a minute ago.) You also notice that there is, lo and behold, a very convenient coolkid-shaped empty spot next to the slumbering lump of John sprawled out on his bed.

This is obviously both a SIGN and an OPEN INVITATION.

You ninja over in admirable fashion and deposit your ironic shades next to his supremely un-ironic glasses on the bedside table. They probably need a bro-cuddle too.

**Dave: Burrow in next to Egderp like a Disney bunny**

Abjure. Abjure abjure abjure.

You sneakily insinuate yourself in the general proximity of your best friend in a way that does not even remotely resemble burrowing. You don't want to wake him up, after all. Unlike you he so obviously needs his beauty sleep. (All lies. You secretly agree with your dear ecto-sister Rose that John Egbert is adorkable and the opinion of a Strider is not to be questioned.)

Under the covers John is snuggling the PROP BUNNY you gifted him that fateful Day Shit Went Down. You know this because a minute after you creep into his bed he rolls over and, like the ecto-gravity that keeps Earth and Alternia Eskimo-kissing parallel in the fabric of space and time, unerringly throws his arm around you. The bunny comes with. Suddenly you are at first base with the dingy stuffed rabbit pressed against your face.

**Dave: Quit bitching and enjoy your bro-cuddle**

You quit bitching and enjoy your bro-cuddle. The bunny is easily shifted. It is nice and warm under John's un-ironic Ghostbusters blankets and his deceptively strong hammer-arm curled around your chest promises sweet, sweet protection from marauding smuppets out to compromise your girlish virtue.

Smuppets? What smuppets.

Somehow your head winds up under John's chin and you don't mind. You close your freak-eyes (but John gets mad when you call them that because "they're totally awesome eyes, Dave!") and get back to the very important task of sleeping. Almost at once you slip into another dream.

In this dream you have your wings back.

No, not the silly ruff of neck feathers, not your kooky long ectoplasmic sprite tail, just your big wonderful orange crow wings attached to normal old Dave Coolkid Strider. John is beside you in his ridiculous blue hood hat and he is smiling hugely at you, and he is doing that windy thing that he can still do sometimes in his bedroom because Rose very helpfully toggled the ceilings about five times higher and nobody in his neighborhood of identical houses has said a word about the add-on.

You are Dave Strider, and there is nothing ironic about how happy you are as you and your best friend fly together until morning.

/ - / - / - / - /


	2. Dancing on the Ceiling

**Characters:** Belong to Andrew Hussie.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Your name is Dave Strider and you are being mercilessly PESTERED by your best bro, John Egbert.

**Dave: Open an ear and find out what he wants**

You guess you will. He is your best bro and all. And his voice in person is a lot harder to ignore than the caterwauling of an untended pesterchum window.

"Daaave, come oooon. You know you want to!"

John flops onto the bed beside you and you bounce a bit but otherwise don't twitch.

"John, that's obviously one of those baseless accusation things that Rose is always accusing me of accusing her with baselessly. The only thing I want to do at this particular moment in time is lie here quietly in the wholesome sanctuary that is your Domain of Derp."

"Oh, really? Wow. The fact that you ninja-ed into my bed last night and put your cold toes on my leg didn't tip me off at all." John rolls his blue eyes behind his dorky square glasses. "Why don't you just tell your brother the smuppets freak you out to the point of nightmares and get it over with?"

**Dave: Pap your best bro in the face with his own pillow**

Excellent suggestion. However, it is impossible with your head on the aforementioned pillow and you would really rather not move right at this moment.

**Dave: Pap your best bro in the face with the PROP BUNNY**

That you can handle. You commence with the bunny papping easily, as you might possibly have been already holding said bunny to your chest a moment ago. "Shoosh, John. Only bunnies now." The ratty rabbit of much renown is as close as you want to get to anything even remotely resembling a puppet today.

"Come on, Dave, you can't lay there all day! That is so not cool! Get up and dance with me!"

"Number one, Egbert: you know not of what you speak. Striders exude cool, unlike the rest of the general populace that wouldn't know cool if it latched onto their cheek like a lamprey and started to suck. Number two: you have borderline unhealthy levels of energy pulsing through your twitchy body that need to be burned off in even unhealthier ways involving tire swings and pogo rides and giant rainbow-colored no-homo hammers. I do not. Obviously you should let me and my fragile emotional state rest until Jade and Rose get here."

"But they won't be here for a looooong time. I'm bored."

**Dave: Tune John out**

Abjure. This is not possible. When John gets his cute-whine on it's like Christmas all up in here. Or rather it's like Christmas Eve when the brats are all crawling around under the tree like army ants, shaking presents and clinging to the feet of their elders, begging until they're one small step from an aneurism to get at those scrumptious goodies.

"I guess I'm just going to have to show you how much fun it is. Your overwhelming jealousy of all the fun I'm having will entice you off your plush rump to dance with me."

John ignores the glare you shoot him at the mention of plush rumps. Even if he can't see your glare through your ironic shades this is no excuse, because he is your BEST BRO and he knows when you are glaring, damn it. But he gets up off the bed anyway and fires up the music player on his computer.

**Dave: Cover your ears in fear**

Gladly. Some of the tunes Egderp has stored in the bowels of that poor machine are sick in the totally opposite than good way. You are ironically terrified of what might rear its archaic head first. Once the Backstreet Boys surfaced and you absconded so fast you tripped over a fake arm on your way out.

"Whatever, Dave, my music does not suck!"

It seems John has seen your IRONIC COWER. Perhaps he is slightly offended by the pillow over your face. Before you can entertain the thought of feeling bad, however, the dulcet tones of Lady Gaga confirm your fears.

"Lies, Egbert, all lies."

"You know you like Gaga. Un-ironically. Deal with it."

**Dave: Admit you like Gaga un-ironically and dance with John**

Who are you, Karkat? Of course you will not admit to liking Gaga un-ironically. Nor will you dance with John. Even if he actually does look like he is having fun. Even if he looks like he's about to—oh, God. He is.

"Just dance!" John sings, taking his own advice remarkably well. "It's gonna be okay! Da-da da-doo!"

"Egbert," you warn.

"—spin that record, _Dave!_" he sings gleefully, completely drowning out your warning. "It's gonna be okay—!"

He did not just insert your name into Gaga in an actually pretty cool and fitting way. You peek over the edge of the pillow. John is grinning at you like an idiot as he dances, like he's done something really clever. Cheeky derp. You valiantly try to keep that pesky little smile off your poker face.

Damn it. Now your brain is even throwing out Gaga references behind your back.

John is out in the middle of his bedroom busting moves you haven't seen in months, not since the two of you spent thirty dollars on glow necklaces and hosted a trans-dimensional interspecies rave in the Egbert domicile.

That was the night Mr. Egbert came home from his business trip unexpectedly to find four kids and twelve trolls burning the place down with sick fires (metaphorical of course). And what had he done? Been so proud of his son for having a party that didn't include even a hint of sex or drugs or booze that he spent the rest of the night baking enough cupcakes for the guests that everyone went back to home or hive with leftovers. Dad Egbert can be a real trip.

**Dave: Bow to the inevitable **

Oh, alright. If you must. You would hate to break John's fragile heart and you've left him hanging long enough. As the track changes you slip off the bed and flash-step out to meet him.

"I knew you couldn't resist!" he laughs, grabbing your wrists to pull you in. "Oh, hey, I love this song! _It's been a really really messed up week_—!"

You get no other warning when your feet leave the floor and the two of you are suddenly floating in the vicinity of the high ceiling. Good thing you know to expect this sort of thing by now. Striders adapt quickly and you are fully aware that a happy Heir of Breath often involves someone or something being buffeted around whichever home you all happen to be in by a playful breeze.

"Shall we dance?" you quip with an IRONIC MID-AIR BOW.

"Oh, Dave, I'm swooning! I thought you'd never ask!"

Then you and your best bro are dancing on the ceiling like a cheesy music video right out of the 1980's but without the goofy camera angles and primitive special effects. It's not quite dancing on the edge of the Hollywood sign but John laughs delightedly all the same and you smile because sometimes it is just okay to go with the flow and do crazy (un?)ironic things with your best friend.

**Dave: Be interrupted**

You grab John and tip him backwards in a beautifully executed TANGO DIP that practically drips with ironic overtones. He giggles like a lunatic and bends back over your arm, stretching his arm over his head and pointing his toes like a trained dancing girl from Buenos Aires. He is probably pretending he has a rose clenched in his teeth and that is just the derpiest, funniest image you could—

"That's so _cute!_" Jade squeals from the floor.

John cries out in shock and loses his grip on the windy thing. You let out an undignified DAVESPRITE SQUAWK as the two of you plummet like runty eaglets kicked out of their nest. The bed breaks your fall with a screaming of box springs and bounces you up in the air again at least two good feet before dumping you both on the floor in a pile of uncool. John is sitting on the small of your back.

"Hi guys!" Jade says brightly.

Rose raises a delicate, flaxen brow at your state of discomfiture. "Oh, dear. I do hope we're not interrupting anything?" The tiniest of smirks plays about her lips.

You purse your own lips the smallest bit and give your dear ecto-sister the most miniscule of annoyed frowns. Sometimes girls just cannot grasp the intricacies of being a best bro. But, as the song still playing in the background says…

_La la la—whatever. La la la—it doesn't matter. La la la—oh well. La la la. _

You are Dave Strider, and you will still dance with John Egbert anytime he asks.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**AN:** Just a small note. The music up there on the page is of course "Just Dance" by Lady Gaga and "Tonight, Tonight" by Hot Chelle Rae. Oh, and if anyone has any ideas for further shenanigans to keep the boys occupied, feel free to suggest them.

/-/-/-/-/


	3. Pumped Up Kicks

**Characters:** Belong to Andrew Hussie

- / - / - / - / -

"Are you sure we should be doing this, Dave?"

Your name is Dave Strider and you are absolutely sure you should be doing the thing that you are doing.

**Dave:** **Reassure John.**

This is a thing that must happen for your plan to go forward, so you do. "Totally positive, bro. We're cool."

"Last time I checked, stealing cars wasn't cool." He looks at you with a GOOD KID FROWN that Dad Egbert would undoubtedly be proud of.

"You wound me, John. Striders are _always_ cool. Besides, we're not stealing this car. A noble knight like myself would never dream such a thing. Stealing means you don't plan to bring it back. We are borrowing this car with full intent to return."

"Your bro's gonna be mad. Like, super mad. Madder than any mad that has ever been a thing that has existed before."

**Dave: Consider the facts.**

After careful consideration you are forced to admit that John's EARNESTLY DELIVERED STATEMENT may be true.

Bro is extremely fond of his NEW CAR. Said car happens to be a candy apple red classic convertible named Anabelle. Bro loves her unironically and last night you saw him hug the hood before he came up from the parking lot.

However.

Bro is currently passed out on his futon in the living room of the apartment you share. Experience born of sixteen years of cohabitation tells you he will be there for the next few hours while the final whoop-tee-doo of last night's DJ gig wears off. This is more than enough time for you and John to go for a little spin.

**Dave: Tell John so.**

"Cease your fussing and get in the car, Egderp. We'll be back in an hour, tops."

John fidgets with the passenger side handle. "Are you sure you know what you're doing…?"

Of course you know what you're doing! Two weeks ago you upgraded your totally rad LEARNERS PERMIT for an even radder DRIVERS LISENCE. Said hunk of plastic proudly proclaims to the Houston area (and yes, to the entire Cosmos) that you are a fit and able operator of motor vehicles such as this one. John is clearly only nervous because he is a few months younger than you and is not eligible for an upgrade of his own yet.

"John, I promise you that I am in complete control. I will drive so carefully that the little blue-haired grannies who drive ten miles per hour under the posted speed limit and can't see over their own steering wheels will marvel at my caution on the road. We'll be fine. Do you really think I died three trillion times in-game and resurrected just so I could do it again now?" You let that query sink in before dropping the bomb. "I'll take you down to the 7-11 and get you an ICEE."

"Copilot controls the radio!" John squeals, and happily jumps in the car.

**Dave: Take your best bro to the 7-11 and buy him the best damn ICEE ever.**

You so do. And you get one for yourself, because you're just that awesome.

The two of you sit in the parking lot enjoying your frozen treats in the sunshine. People gawk in worshipful amazement at how cool you look in your (Bro's) car. While looking for extra napkins John finds a smuppet in the glove box and you promptly launch the plush menace into the nearest garbage can. All things considered, it is an excellent bro outing for best bros to be on.

"John. Think how awesome it would be to take this baby out on the I." You caress the steering column in a WAY THAT IS NOT ALTOGETHER APPROPRIATE. You think you understand a bit better how Bro feels about this car.

John cocks his head like a curious bunny. "On the Interstate? Wow, yeah, that would be really cool!" Then he frowns again. "But we'd have to be really careful. What if you got a ticket?"

**Dave: Be prepared for such a hypothetical turn of events.**

Hell yes you are prepared for that. You pull out the small piece of insurance you secured before leaving the apartment and flash it at John with a coolkid smirk.

"Dave!" John looks completely scandalized. "You stole your brother's drivers license?"

"Again with the stealing, Egbert. Borrowed. Borrowed his license."

"But you have your own license now. Why do you need his?"

"Well, if we do happen to get pulled over—which we will not, by the way—that's not going to look very good on my brand new record, now, is it? Me and Bro look almost identical minus the shades. The cops think I'm him, the ticket has his name on it, and my reputation is safe. It's all for the greater good."

"Is that really okay?" John whispers, obviously in awe of the balls you are showing by doing this thing.

"John. Do you remember when we got spit out of the game?"

"Yeah."

"And do you remember how all those different versions of me from all those timelines all zapped back into one in the greatest fusion of cool since time began?"

"Yeah."

"And you remember how I stared at the wall in a catatonic stupor for a day and a half readjusting while my freakishly abused brain put all those separate memories in order, and when I came out of it Bro had dressed me in a tutu and taken pictures for his blog?"

The derp has the nerve to giggle at you around his ICEE straw. "Yeah, I remember all that. Why?"

"That is exactly why it is okay to do this thing. Now buckle the hell up and find me some decent beats."

"We're doing this?" he asks with a bucktoothed grin, reaching for the radio.

"We're making this happen."

**Dave: Make this happen.**

In a manner that your driving instructor would have surely considered ADMIRABLE, you navigate to the aforementioned Interstate and take the ramp like a pro. You watch your mirrors carefully. You dutifully signal. You are alert, ready to take on any challenge. And you obey the speed limit like the sacred written rule of the road that it is.

You obey the speed limit up until another car comes blasting up behind you. You are no vehicular expert but you know it's a foreign model of some kind and a grand total of all of its components are plastic. It pulls even with you in the adjoining lane just long enough for its occupants—male, twenty-something, undoubtedly hipster—to shout something at you and John about being on the run from your Kindergarten class. Then they buzz away in their little car, laughing.

**Dave: Ignore the dicks so as not to worry your best bro.**

Fiiiiine. Worrying John is not a thing you like to do, even though he and you were once GODS and you certainly did not reconstruct this universe by its BASEST FIBERS so idiots like those guys could pretend that their ride is better than yours. You glance over at John to make sure that he can see your intent to be good.

**Dave: Do a double take. **

Whoa. John's little eyebrows are furrowed like a storm cloud has settled upon them. His teeth are clamped on his lower lip and his cheeks are cherry red for reasons completely removed from the sun and breeze inherent in having the top down.

The Heir of Breath is RIGHTEOUSLY PISSED.

A nanosecond after you process this fact John's left foot flashes from its spot on the floorboard and descends over yours on top of the gas pedal, HARD. There is a roar like a carnivorous lusus on the hunt as the super-sick engine under the hood gets its game on, closing the distance between you and the hipstermobile with remarkable swiftness.

**Dave: Realize that shit just got real.**

Oh, it is on. Every ninja nerve in your body immediately bends to the challenge of laying smackdowns, defending honor, and not getting yourself and your best friend killed. As you do, though, you're not concentrating too hard to ignore the guy in question.

John is laughing, and before the wind whips the words out of his mouth you catch what he's saying.

"It's like flying, Dave!"

You are Dave Strider, and your best friend is legitimately BA.

- / - / - / - / -

Thanks to: Readasaur, for the idea of Bro's "prank" on comatose Dave!


	4. Casey Makes Three

**AN:** Suggestions for this edition of bro-tastic shenanigans were suggested by **Sifl-senpai! **

**Characters: **Belong to Andrew Hussie.

/ - / - / - / - /

"Jeez, Dave, you look like you've never seen a grocery store before!"

Your name is Dave Strider and your mouth may or may not be hanging open in thinly veiled awe.

**Dave: Reaffirm your poker face and remark IRONICALLY.**

You do so gladly. "Oh, man, bro, didn't I ever tell you? I always thought food magically appeared in the cabinets next to the shitty swords and fireworks. I thought the Food Fairy brought it at night when I was asleep. I managed to make it sixteen and a half years through life without knowing the truth until you came along and ruined the illusion for me with your giant Fort Knox of edible bouillon. Thanks, John."

John swats at you with his tongue out but you can tell he's trying not to laugh. "Whatever! Let's just get this over with. Are you still cool to carry Casey?"

**Dave: Make sure John's beloved SALAMANDER is still hidden.**

She is. John coerced you into coming along while he took her to the local park this afternoon for a frolic and a swim in the pond. All that wholesome family fun must have tired her right out though because her bubblin' little self is still sound asleep in the SALAMANDER TRANSPORTATION DEVICE, aka your backpack. This is a good thing. You get the feeling a moist yellow amphibian the size of a toddler would not be welcome next to the cucumbers and baguettes.

"We are chiller than chill. Shit, John, let's be grocery shoppers."

"Okay! Don't worry, this won't take long. Come on, before Casey wakes up."

**Dave: Follow your best friend-leader into the mystical realm of the SUPERMARKET.**

You do. He obviously knows what he's doing here. Unlike you.

While you would never admit as much to John you honestly can't remember the last time you set foot in a grocery store. It was probably the last time you were young enough that your Bro didn't trust you not to burn the apartment complex down if he left you alone. Food in Casa de Strider doesn't come from the grocery store anymore anyway. It comes in cardboard boxes and paper bags. It comes from the all-night gas station slash convenience store when Bro grabs milk and cereal from there on his way home in the wee hours of the morning or you grab a bottle of apple juice on your way out.

The supermarket John frequents is decidedly a step up from the gas station snack aisle. It's actually kind of cool to see all this unprepared food just kind of chilling in its natural habitat. You figure maybe it's not so bad that Mr. Egbert needed the two of you to pick up some supplies.

**Dave: Tell John this.**

No, you don't think you will. John does not want to be here at all. More specifically he does not want to be anywhere near the baking aisle.

"Man, I can't believe Dad ran out of cake mix. He buys the stuff in bulk! Running out of cake mix is like running out of oxygen—it's just not a thing he does."

"Didn't he say he's baking for an office carry-in or something?"

John snorts. "He's probably baking enough for his office and the ten surrounding offices."

This totally sounds like something Mr. Egbert would do. You nod and keep following John. Maybe you can get a bottle of apple juice out of this little excursion. Or, you know. A real apple. You can't remember the last time you had one of—

"Oh my God, seriously!"

**Dave: Crash into John when he stops dead right in front of you.**

Hell nah, bro. Striders do not crash. Not ever.

**Dave: Neatly flash-step to the side to avoid the Egbertian roadblock.**

That's better.

You peer causally around John to see what's got his knickers in such a twist. The BAKED GOODS AISLE sprawls before you. You have never seen so many boxes of cake/muffin/brownie/pancake mix in your life. Cans of frosting tower in tall stacks. Bags of flour and sugar and baking chocolate line the shelves further down. It is a hyper kid's dream come true and a diabetic's worst nightmare.

"The Batter Witch expanded again!" John rages, pointing a finger accusingly at the largest section of boxes. "Every time I come in here—every time, Dave, seriously!—the Betty Crocker section gets bigger!"

You're not really surprised. Even though Betty Crocker is just another corporation in your new and improved post-Game world and is definitely no longer a real-life evil threat, it is still the nature of companies to expand. Sometimes you do actually pay attention in economics class. John looks like he's about to have one of his weird cake fits, though.

"Dude, are you okay?"

No response but twitching from John. Yep, it's a looming cake freak out.

**Dave: Placate John before he makes a scene.**

Hang on there, hoss. Is it just you or did your backpack suddenly get lighter?

You quickly glance behind you and see the yellow backside of a salamander hightailing it up the baking aisle. Damn it. That nap must have reenergized her little bubbly batteries.

**Dave: Give chase.**

"Hold that thought, Egbert. Be right back." John will just have to chill for a second. You feel sure that if he were in his right mind he would agree with you that Casey just became the more pressing issue here.

You flash-step after said wayward salamander but she's a crafty little bugger like her prankster papa. Before you can close even half the distance between you she whips around the bend and vanishes. You do, however, hear the telltale crash that follows in her wake.

At the end of the aisle it becomes obvious what Casey crashed into when you nearly do a home plate slide through a giant puddle of fizzing sugary goodness. The entirety of a pyramid of Faygo bottles is squirting out its lifeblood all over the tile. There are about ten different flavors all up in here and the resulting multicolored mess looks like what would be left over if a bunch of trolls had a massive cross-quadrant orgy with no bucket in sight.

You shake your head violently to dispel such a disturbing thought. Maybe you will see if this grocery store carries bleach. Your mental eyes will never be the same.

**Dave: Focus.**

A quick scan reveals your quarry scrambling atop a ROLLING FREEZER APPARATUS down by the meat and seafood counter. She's bubbling like crazy, which means she's excited about something. You casually edge closer. Nice and easy catches the slippery bubbler.

Upon closer inspection the freezer seems to be full of ICE and SHRIMP. The lid is propped open and Casey is perched on the lip of it.

You keep inching closer. Interception is the key. Maybe you can talk her down. "Whoa, now. Let's not do anything too hasty. I'm reading your lizard mind and what you're thinking isn't sanitary. You're probably covered in E. coli or salmonella or something. If we get kicked out of here because you went swimming in the shrimpazoids and everybody puked I'm revoking your Cool Card."

Casey blinks at you. Blows a bubble. And leans forward.

Oh, that burns.

**Dave: Wear the apron. Be the MOM.**

"Yo! I'm talking to you, dog! I may not be Egbert but I am so totes in charge of you right now. I am so in charge all the credit cards in the Mall of America couldn't handle all the charging going on here. Now you're gonna get your rubbery yellow rump back in this backpack or I'll—"

Shrimp and ice scatter as Casey swan dives into the pile of swimming decopod crustaceans.

Dissed by a salamander. That really smarts. You can feel your cool points zipping away as you speak. Enough of this malarkey. You dash forward ninja style and scoop Casey out of her ill-gotten spoils with your backpack. She already has a huge mouthful of shrimp. It's so stuffed she can't even bubble in protest.

**Dave: Decide now would be a good time to wrap up this errand.**

You don't want to think about how many people have just seen you lose your cool to a waddling lemon with a tail. You really don't want to think about what will go down when they discover the Faygo. So you zip Casey back into the bag and get back to John as fast as Striderly possible. Which is pretty fast. Just saying.

John is still flipping his shit when you arrive. He's backed up against a display of birthday candles and cake decorations, shaking his head violently and gibbering as he flails his arms at the Betty Crocker selection of mixes.

"Dude, just grab some Duncan Hines!"

When John shows no signs of heeding your advice you quickly decide to do it for him. The ICE you scooped up with Casey is melting in your backpack and seeping into the back of your shirt. Also it smells like SHRIMP, which is really pretty gross. You can feel the yellow menace herself squirming around in there totally awkwardly. A KINDLY-LOOKING GRANNY stares at you funny as she hobbles by with her shopping cart.

**Dave: Drag John to the checkout post haste.**

Greatest idea yet. You shove John ahead of you as best you can with your arms full of cake mix boxes and frosting cans.

As soon as you clear the baking aisle, John snaps out of his stupor with an innocent blink. "Oh. Dad said he needs eggs, too, Dave."

**Dave: Caringly throttle your best friend to death.**

Sometimes you are honestly tempted. But he is your best pal in the cosmos. You would miss him unironically.

**Dave: Go wait outside.**

Piling the boxes and canisters into John's arms, you abscond. You were a good bro and were totally there to pull him from the throes of the Batter Witch's spell. He can handle it from here.

"I'll be right there!" John calls cheerfully over the stack of mix boxes.

And he is, too. You only stand outside the building for a few minutes before he emerges with his arms full of paper bags. "Yo, Egbert. That was quick. I'm impressed."

"Thanks for waiting. Here, I got you a snack! You could stand to eat a little healthier, you know."

You accept the apple he hands you with poker face intact. It is red and shiny and beautiful. It feels like a QUEST PRIZE. As you fondly regard your new apple Casey pops her head out of your backpack and bubbles at John.

John grins. "Of course I didn't forget you. I got you a super special snack, too!" And the giggling derp pulls out a bag of raw shrimp. "See, won't these be yummy? Who's my good girl? You are!"

Casey bubbles in triumph.

You are Dave Strider, and it's hard being the sole responsible parental role model for a young salamander. It's hard and nobody understands.

/ - / - / - / - /


	5. Movie Night

**AN:** It was really about time for John to get his POV in here. If he's good, he'll get his own chapter once in a while. Maybe.

/ - / - / - / - /

Your name is John Egbert and you are trying hard to be very, very still.

**John: Be the best pillow you can be.**

You said you're trying, gosh! It's not like you want to move or anything, because that would totally wake Dave up. He doesn't just go around falling asleep on people willy-nilly either so this is kind of a SPECIAL OCCASION.

**John: Contemplate how this situation of pillow-being came about.**

Okay, sure!

Contrary to popular belief, you can and do go more than three days in a row on a regular basis without watching a Nic Cage movie. So when you and your best friend decided that it was definitely a MOVIE NIGHT, the two of you jointly settled on _Jurassic Park_. And somewhere between the popcorn and the ice cream and the T-rex eating a goat Dave fell asleep on your shoulder. The time difference between Texas and Washington sneaks up on you like that sometimes.

Speaking of sneaking, your hand is casually wandering down from where it has been harmlessly chilling on the back of the couch. Wow, hand, what are you doing?

After the third time you poked him awake, Dave just flopped onto your lap (ironically of course) and told you to wake him up when Velociraptors happen. Dave loves the raptors because "they're the ninjas of the dino kingdom, yo." Until then he's apparently content to use your thigh as a pillow and get his cat nap on.

Your rebellious hand is drifting. It hovers over a stray lock of blonde hair, bright against the denim of your jeans. We're watching you, hand. No funny business.

You know that Dave is actually asleep this time instead of ironically pretending to snooze because his shades are slipping down the bridge of his nose like they never do when he's awake. Looking down you can see the fair hairs of his eyelashes highlighted in the light of the TV screen. Plus he's drooling just a little bit, which he absolutely hates. Yes, it is official: Dave Strider, Knight of Time, out-troller of trolls, starter of sick fires and coolest of the coolkids, is irrefutably asleep on your lap. Hence the SPECIAL OCCASION you mentioned earlier.

**John: Stop stalling and just take advantage of this singular opportunity.**

Um. Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should just slip out from under Dave all sly like and go refill the popcorn bowl. You think there may still be some leftover pizza in the fridge. Wouldn't that hit the spot right now?

**John: Quit being a wimp and play with your best bro's hair already.**

Fine! And you totally aren't a wimp either! The hand you've left hanging for like five minutes finally makes a very, very soft landing in Dave's equally soft hair.

For reasons you still can't fathom, said hair intrigues you. Where your own hair is kind of wiry and sticks up all over the place and looks like it's never seen a brush no matter how much you try to make it look decent, Dave's hair is always perfect. So is Rose's—almost identical to Dave's really—but she's a girl. Girls are supposed to have nice hair. Maybe that's why you've never caught yourself wanting to pet her head like a little blonde kitty but you'll totally do it to Dave.

Wow, that sounded weird.

**John: Be very, very careful not to wake him up.**

You are, honest! But it doesn't really seem like you need to be that careful at all.

Dave has MAD NINJA SKILLS. They are a thing that exists. You know it. The world knows it. It is a fact of life. He has some sort of freaky-cool sixth sense that astounds you almost daily. If Jade or Rose or one of your many troll friends came through the door on tiptoe holding their breath or your dad walked through the hallway behind the couch (no matter how quietly) Dave would be awake and upright like a bugler played Reveille next to his head. And yet here he is, sleeping through your fingers twirling in his hair like a happy little clown fish frolicking in a sea anemone.

It gives you this sort of really awesome happy feeling.

**John: Ponder TRUST.**

Dave's subconscious inclusion of you in the category of "things that are safe enough to sleep around" is making it very difficult for you not to get sappy. But you can be a pretty sappy guy sometimes, so you don't really try as hard as you might to think non-sappy thoughts.

You and Dave are the best of the best friends. Beyond expensive plush rabbits and prop shades that thirteen-year-olds really can't afford—honestly what were you both thinking on those birthdays?—your best frienditude was proven during the SBURB/SGRUB FIASCO. It was proven beyond any hint of cosmic doubt and etched in stardust to be known beyond the end of time. (This is a true thing. Jade told you so and buster, Jade knows stars!)

You may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but you do know that a thousand alternate timeline incarnations of Dave dying in a thousand messy and painful ways to save, or at least attempt to save, the lives of a thousand alternate timeline incarnations of you is most definitely a BIG DEAL. He never mentions it though, so you try not to either. It's just a thing you don't talk about. But you never forget it, or the other million and two reasons why Dave Strider is your best bro. You trust him with all of your lives. And apparently he trusts you right back.

**John: Be the sap.**

Oh, man. You totally are the sap. It is you.

You keep petting Dave's hair. He sighs gently. You bend down a little closer, watching how relaxed his face is. The limp hands resting on his stomach are almost lost in the sleeves of his red hoodie that Kanaya embroidered with the gear symbol for him like she did for all of you with your various God Tier crests when things had settled down. Your breath ruffles the hair falling over his forehead.

With him sleeping on you like this, relaxed all trustingly while you are wide-eyed and alert, it almost seems like you're the one protecting Dave for a change. That makes no sense, since Bro isn't even there to freak him out with a well-placed Smuppet and the only thing you could possibly protect him from in the quiet darkness of your living room would be your dad popping up with a Betty Crocker confectionary (which Dave still eats no matter how much you try to get him not to!).

But you don't care how much sense it does or doesn't make. You like the feel anyway.

**John: Notice that you have completely forgotten to keep an eye out for raptors.**

Oh shoot, you did forget! Raptors are totally a thing that is happening. The kids are in the cafeteria all alone with dino shadows on the wall.

**John: Wake up Dave.**

Actually… you kind of don't want to now. But since he did ask you to, you guess you better.

"Dave? Hey, Daaave." You move your hand from his hair to his shoulder and shake gently.

It only takes him a few seconds to come around. "Huh?" He blinks up at you like a blonde owl before pushing his shades back up where they belong. Then he wipes quickly at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "Sup?"

You have to smile. "The raptors are on."

"Oh. Sweet."

Dave doesn't even try to get up. He just rolls over to see the TV better, his ear rather than the back of his head pressing against your thigh now. You let the hand that was in his hair drop back to his shoulder and leave it there. He lets you. And there are a grand total of zero "no homo" comments made.

**John: Be the guy whose damn isn't given for societal stereotypes. **

Psssh. Damn giving about petty stuff like that is soooo middle school! One thing you can say about saving universes, it really opens your eyes to what's really important in life. Like bro-cuddles. Those are totally a thing that is important. And really, with twelve of your best friends completely not even understanding that particular societal stereotype, it seemed kind of silly to keep caring about it yourself.

Raptors are jumping around on countertops and banging into cabinets. Dave hums in sleepy interest. His chin lands on your knee as he rolls a little more for optimal raptor-viewing. You counterattack by petting his hair again. He asked for it, being all clingy and stuff!

Dave has casually mentioned that Bro told him once how he was really clingy as a little kid. "Like a damn monkey," you believe were the exact words. You figure maybe he never really outgrew being clingy. He just suppressed it until he found a really rad best bro to cling to. This isn't a thing that bothers you. Kind of the opposite, actually, since Dave doesn't cling to anyone but you. So here lately you've been tending to cling back. It kind of makes sense now why Karkat recently snarked that "you platonically pathetic morons are finally doing moirallegiance right."

The two of you stay that way for what little remains of the movie. Oh, gosh, you love the ending! Nothing is cooler than dinosaurs except maybe Nic Cage. Nic Cage should totally make a dinosaur movie.

Dave sighs very dramatically when his raptors get taken out by the T-rex in the final moments.

You pat his head sympathetically.

"It's okay, Egbert. Everybody knows the Rex is just jealous. He couldn't ninja if his life depended on it. You know they had to knock out a wall just to fit his Cretaceous caboose inside the visitor's center."

"The T-rex is a girl, Dave."

"Details."

**John: Forlornly accept that movie night has come to a close.**

The one bad thing about movie nights is that they eventually have to end. You sigh just a little bit as the non-eaten paleontologists fly off into the sunset. Dave is obviously tired. He'll get up and slouch back to Texas via your CLOSET TRANSPORTALIZER UNITS and leave your lap cold and bereft. You'd ask him to stay but you don't want to whine. You know you'll see him again tomorrow, though, so—

Suddenly there is a DVD case under your nose.

Dave looks up at you from upside down in your lap. "Up for the next one?"

**John: Be entirely up for that.**

"Sure! But aren't you sleepy?"

"Maybe I'd be able to stay awake if you weren't so comfy, bro. Totally not my fault. Guess that's the price I have to pay for ironic dino movie marathons. Speaking of irony, never mind. I just changed our movie. We're totally watching _The Land Before Time_."

"… seriously, Dave?"

"I'm completely serious. If you're lucky I'll let you out of watching the twenty-six shitty sequels. I'll even hold you and shoosh-pap you while you cry over the dino-mom dying horribly, which I know you will. How about it?"

**John: Give Dave your answer.**

This is something you can do.

You lean down really fast and before Dave can make a move to ninja out of the way, you land a kiss on his forehead. As you pull away you see that his shades have slid down again and his eyes are really wide. The dumbstruck look on his normally neutral poker face makes you laugh in not-even-remotely-disguised delight.

Your name is John Egbert and you love movie night almost as much as you love your best friend.

/ - / - / - / - /


	6. Saving Private Strider

**AN:** Sorry it took so long to get up a new chapter, everyone. It's not been abandoned, I just had a lot on my plate.

Oh! And if you decided to leave me a comment asking a question, be sure to register on the site and log in so I can reply to you! If you sign in as a guest, I've got no way to reply and answer you.

/ - / - / - / - / - /

Your name is Dave Strider and you are currently embroiled in a WAR.

**Dave: Be the superior tactician.**

No sweat, yo.

From behind your impressive fortifications you have been carefully monitoring your enemy's movements. Said espionage has informed you that half of the opposition's forces have just embarked on a supply run. If your awesome math skills are correct then that means only half of their forces are left to defend their territory. Now is the time to strike.

**Dave: Charge.**

To victory!

You leap over your carefully constructed barricade and fly at the enemy encampment. You move like the wind. Nothing can touch you. You are poetry in motion. You are—

—falling. Falling is definitely a thing you are doing. Also there are suddenly about three hundred ENEMY PROJECTILES barreling toward your helpless body. No, really. A rip in the fabric of space itself has just opened up and past the vast expanse of stars and supernovas floating around in it you can see your DOOM hurtling toward you like so many angry bees.

**Dave: Make the best of the situation.**

You might as well. You may be about to bite the dust but you are a Strider and also the Knight of Time and you will do so to the very best of your ironic ability.

Time slows around you. Your headlong sprawl becomes a graceful pirouetting descent. You spiral dramatically through the air as the missiles begin to make contact with unresisting flesh. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. You continue to fall. Half a minute later your landing wraps up the best showing of OVERDONE SLOW MOTION since Neo invented bullet time.

You also have a NERF DART neatly suctioned to the middle of each lens of your aviators. Damn. Even without her space witchy powers Harley is a hell of a shot.

"Woot, woot!" Jade leaps from behind the Egberts' loveseat and executes a dance of victory complete with TRIUMPHANT PELVIC THRUSTS. "That's a win for team HammerSpace!"

**Dave:** Be the DEAD DAVE.

You do have to admit that you have all kinds of practice at being a very attractive corpse. It's a tough job but someone has to do it. You stay out of commission on the carpet.

"I suspect that move might not have been quite fair," Rose says mildly, peeking out from behind the overturned coffee table that was your fortress.

"Was too!" Jade counters obstinately.

"I believe that dear Dave and his katana would have stood an excellent chance of triumphing, regardless of the technological advantages of your turbo dart cannon, had his feet not run afoul of my knitting. As a famous poet once said, Dave: my bad."

**Dave: Seek revenge on your entirely unhelpful ecto-sibling.**

You are fully prepared to do just that. However, before you can sit up and start untangling the coils of lavender yarn from around your ankles, the second half of the enemy team returns from his supply run.

John takes one look at you sprawled out in your pile of Nerf-littered shame like an executed scalemate and promptly drops the tray of snacks he was bringing in to all of you like the GOOD HOST he is. Bottles of apple juice and a bowl of chips scatter to the winds as he drops to his knees at your side. "Dave! Nooooooooo!"

You aren't the only one who can pony up a thick layer of dramatic flair. You stay limp and unresisting as your best bro manhandles your upper body onto his lap.

"John, quit fraternizing with the deceased enemy!" Jade hollers.

John ignores her completely in favor of mourning the tragic loss of your bro-ship. "Oh, Dave! Why did our ecto-blood have to pit us against one another on opposite sides of this brutal conflict? Why must the good die young? Why will you hit me if I quote a dramatic Nic Cage scene?!"

**Dave: Point out a shining ray of hope.**

"John," you croak, weakly lifting a hand to catch the front of his shirt. "Egbert. Best bro. Broseph. Broski. John."

"Yes, Dave?" he replies mock-tearfully.

"John. There may yet be hope. You might be able to bring me back from the edge of this ill precipice." You stretch your hand out imploringly toward a bottle of apple juice that's rolled up near the two of you. "Now make like I'm Link and give me some of that sweet golden potion to boost my pixilated hearts back in order." Rainy day Nerf battles can really work up a powerful thirst.

"It's too late for that!" John cries. "It's getting dark! You're slipping away!"

"How do you know if it's getting dark?" Jade asks. "You're not the one who's fake dead because I whupped their butt fair and square."

John ignores her and grabs you DRAMATICALLY, one hand behind your neck supporting your head like you're about to convey your last words to him. "Don't worry, Dave. The Heir of Breath won't allow you to breathe your last!"

**Dave: Wonder WTF your trickster-bro is about to pull.**

You do wonder. You wonder a lot. Knowing John it could be anything.

Then he proves it by hauling you up and trying to give you freaking mouth to mouth resuscitation. On the mouth. With his mouth. On your mouth. Hell no.

"Bluh, John, what the hell are you doing?" you squawk, initiating a slappy fight that he happily joins with a cackle.

There is no such thing as "no homo" anymore. It is no longer a thing that exists. Despite the fact that neither of you are trolls John has been trying very hard to be a good moirail and be all kinds of icky sticky sappy with you. You are not ashamed by the fact that you don't mind. If John wants to give you platonic face smooches who are you to say no?

But right now there are GIRLS watching. Jade is squealing with laughter as her ecto-brother tries to give you the breath of life and Rose is face-palming behind the coffee table over your antics (not that she won't try to psychoanalyze them ten minutes from now and tell you how much your subconscious wants the Egderp in hearts instead of diamonds). Abort, abort, abort.

**Dave: Be the dude who is escaping the enemy's clutches.**

"No time shenanigans, no time shenanigans!" John yelps as you begin to do your thing, but Harley already used her space shenanigans to pummel you into submission so this is entirely legal. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Your name is Dave Strider and you will make it up to your COMICALLY TIME-FROZEN best friend later. You know he'll understand.

/ - / - / - / - /


	7. Blue Christmas

**AN:** Sorry it's a little late. But better late than never I suppose.

/ - / - / - / - /

Your name is Dave Strider, and you kind of really like Christmas Eve.

**Dave: Ponder the tradition of Christmas Eve.**

Heck yeah you will. Christmas Eve is sweet. Even though you're not a little kid anymore who watches Santa go across the map on the evening news tracker you still have an awesome time. You and Bro suit up in your ironic UGLY CHRISTMAS SWEATERS and decorate your apartment sized tree. Then you drink eggnog, eat cookie dough right out of the tube, and ironically watch SHITTY CLASSIC HOLIDAY CARTOONS—the ones with the horrible stop-motion animation that are brilliant in their badness. You hope you can make movies as wonderfully bad as that one day.

Yeah, Christmas Eve is pretty much the shit.

**Dave: Ponder your current circumstances.**

Okay. So. This Christmas Eve isn't exactly turning out as great as the other ones.

This particular twenty-fourth of December your bro is absent. One of the most popular clubs in town is hosting a huge bash and he was hand picked to spin the vinyl. He was also offered a big sweaty wad of cold hard cash to do said spinning on a night when a lot of people are home with their kids and dogs and gingerbread houses. So you traded fist bumps and off he went.

The two of you will spend tomorrow morning together anyway. Like you already mentioned, you're not a little kid anymore. The world won't stop turning without ugly sweaters and shitty holiday cartoons. You can totally spend a Christmas Eve alone.

**Dave: Be kind of lonely.**

Screw that. No way are you kind of lonely. Kind of lonely is definitely a thing you are not.

**Dave: Be really damn lonely.**

Okay, yeah. So you might actually be leaning more toward really damn lonely. It's okay for you to think that. Striders don't admit to being really damn lonely under normal circumstances but right now you are alone so you think it might be alright.

Determined to make the best of it, you sprawl out on the sofa nonchalantly. Might as well see what Rudolph is up to. Ol' Rudy is your home dog. Not every mutant glowing reindeer can take on an abominable snowman the size of a building and live to tell the tale.

Yep, you are definitely all alone in Casa de Strider. No one else here but you and a stop-motion reindeer. You are perfect in your solitude. This isn't so bad. You are holding down the fort, you are the boss of the bosses, you are—

—HOLYJESUSFUCKLILCAL.

**Dave: Run to your bedroom at supersonic meteor-hurling speeds.**

You swear you hate that creepy-ass puppet. You swear to gog you do.

Whelp. Now that you're in your room and all three of your Bro-proof-Cal-proof locks are firmly in place you might as well boot up the laptop and pester your friends. Surely at least one of the trolls isn't at a Twelfth Perigree's Eve party. You would like to pester Jade or Rose but you know for a fact that they are together at a swanky holiday soiree Mom Lalonde put together.

You would really like to pester your BEST BRO, one John Egbert. Hell, you would like to transportalize over to his house for a pity sleepover. But you refrain.

You know John won't be online tonight. Nor will he be able to entertain company tonight. John will be performing the time honored traditions of his own house. He and his dad will be making cakes and cookies from scratch and decorating their own giant tree with three times the lights and tinsel and ornaments you and Bro have collected through the years. The Egberts will probably play the piano together. Dad will tilt his fedora to a saucy angle and try to sing like Bing Crosby. John will laugh and drown him out with the music.

Yeah. You won't bother John.

**Dave: Hear a noise in your closet.**

You swear on the VAST GLUB that if this creature that is stirring bears even one iota of resemblance to a puppet you're going to eviscerate its plush rump right here and now.

Luckily for everyone involved, a puppet is not what you find when you whip open your closet door. Lo and behold, there stands John. In nerdy Christmas-themed pajamas no less.

"Hi Dave! … uh, what's with the shitty sword?"

**Dave: Ditch the shitty sword.**

Sword: re-captchalogued. Cool: regained.

"Sup, Egbert."

John perks up and grins at you. "Hey Dave, I just came to ask you if you and Bro want to come over and hang out with me. I mean, I know you guys have your own ironic stuff to do and all, but I was just thinking how cool it would be—"

"Bro's not home."

"He's not?" Cue the confused derp face. "Where is he?"

"Working. Big party downtown. They wanted the best of the best to DJ on Christmas Eve, yo."

"So that means you're by yourself, too! Then you totally have to come over, Dave! We'll have the best sleepover since that time Jade toothpasted you in your sleep, except that won't happen this time, for obvious reasons."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Time out. John is by himself? It is so not like Dad Egbert to be gone for any important occasion. Maybe he's locked in a trunk somewhere. Maybe he's actually a super hero and was needed at the scene of an epic jewel heist. Maybe he has amnesia and right now he's wandering the streets trying to figure out who he is and why he's holding a cake pan and a set of measuring cups.

**Dave: Be kind of legitly worried for the guy.**

"Dude, where's your dad?"

John kind of sighs and shrugs a little. "He got snowed in. Out in Chicago. He was supposed to be home from his business trip this morning, but everything got all messed up. He might be able to get a flight tomorrow, though. Maybe."

Well. That certainly settles that.

"I am so there, bro. Trim up the tree and spike the eggnog. Do you have another pair of sweet PJs I could borrow? Maybe ones with little Santas on them?"

"Shut up, Dave. My snowflake pajamas are warm and comfy and totally badass."

"You just keep telling yourself that. Whatever helps you sleep during the day, in the words of Karkles."

John gives you a shove, but you can see his beaver teeth when he grins. "Grab your stuff and let's go, you insufferable prick."

**Dave: Grab your stuff and go, you insufferable pri—**

That'll be just about enough of that, thank you.

It takes you roughly thirty seconds to grab your pillow and follow John through the CLOSET TRANSPORTALIZER UNIT. You already have a toothbrush and your own very ironic sleepwear at his house, stashed for just such occasions, so there really is no preparation needed.

When you stumble out of the opposite closet and make your way downstairs into the Egbert living room, John's house does indeed look like the Sears-Roebuck catalogue puked up one of its cheesy Christmas displays. The only light comes from the fireplace and the twinkle lights on the huge, immaculately trimmed tree in one corner. The house smells like cookies you're sure John baked all by his lonesome. Sure enough there is snow falling outside the window in the soft glow of a subdivision streetlamp.

Most importantly, however, a prominent structure has been erected to one side of the room. It is close enough to the tree to touch the perfectly wrapped presents underneath and lines up directly with the TV.

**Dave: Shed a manly tear.**

No tears, manly or otherwise. But that is still a kickass blanket fort John has made for the two of you. You show your appreciation by flash-stepping into it and burrowing in. "Sweet fort, Egbert. Strider approved."

John seems inordinately pleased. He scampers off and returns a few minutes later with a plate full of cookies, a gallon of milk, and the PROP BUNNY ("shut up Dave her name is Liv Tyler get it right!") under one arm. He crawls in beside you and the two of you settle in. In the shuffle you put your hand on a lump under the blankets and the TV suddenly blinks to life.

"…_you're a mean one, Mr. Grinch… You really are a heeeeeel! You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Griiiinch~"_

"Oh wow, I love the animated Grinch!" John says very sincerely, stretching out beside you for optimal viewing.

So does Bro. You bought him a pair of Grinch boxers last year. You think about how he's wearing them under his jeans at the club right this very moment and almost fight down a smile before you decide to let it slide just this once.

You're reaching for a cookie when the package catches your eye. Its bright red wrapping paper is striking among green, blue, and white as it nestles under the tree next to its fellows. This close to the tree you can make out the nametag. The name tag says TO: DAVE.

**Dave: Freak the fuck out.**

Oh, man. Oh man oh man oh man. Stockings just got real. The sugarplums just hit the whirling device.

Bro is like a very thin, very blonde Santa Clause with no facial hair and prominent sideburns. He hides presents like the ninja he is. You never have a chance to shake boxes. Ever. And this delectable little morsel is just chilling right there in the open. This one won't make it 'til morning.

You seize your prize—only to have it plucked from your grasp.

"No way, Dave. No presents until tomorrow morning."

**Dave: Cry like a baby and wet your diaper.**

Okay, screw you. Screw you and the antlered hoofbeast you rode in on.

**Dave: Take back what's yours.**

When a man's possession of his presents is called into dispute, what option is left but to aggress? You land on John with a war cry that mingles a moment later with his shrill screams of refusal as he tries to abscond with your gift. The two of you tumble out of the blanket fort and roll to the middle of the floor. CHRISTMAS EVE BEST BRO PRESENT STRIFE: GO.

Your gift sails onto the sofa. Easy target. You de-captchalogue your shitty sword and—

"You shall not pass!" John yells, placing himself firmly in front of the couch with a manic grin. Oh damn, did he just whip out Zillyhoo? You should have brought a less shitty sword.

In the background the Grinch continues grinching. The fire pops. Outside the snow falls gently. Splintered jester figurines fly. Neatly sliced holly wreaths rain down.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are having a really awesome Christmas Eve.


	8. Hell's Kitchen

Characters: Belong to Andrew Hussie.

/ - / - / - / - / - /

Your name is Dave Strider and you are totally rocking this apron, yo.

**Dave: Be the chef.**

You are the chef. It is you. And with the help of your lovely assistant John you are going to make Bro the choicest BIRTHDAY CONFECTION that has ever graced his taste buds.

This year you settled on baking a cake for Bro because of the perfect amounts of IRONIC OVERTONES inherent in the gesture. You decided to make the cake in the shape of a smuppet because of the perfectly balancing amounts of BROTHERLY SINCERITY (even if the shape does make you shudder and throw up in your mouth a little it is Bro's favorite shape gogdammit and it is the shape he shall receive). And you decided to change your plan and make your smuppet cake into a bunch of cupcakes arranged in the shape of a smuppet because John absolutely refused to assist you in baking a real cake. You have never baked a thing in your life so you sort of really need his help here. Apparently cupcakes straddle a thin line that he is grudgingly willing to walk for your sake.

"Okay now, this is really simple," John says. He has placed eggs, water, oil, a measuring cup, a bowl, and a spoon in front of you. "Just follow the directions on the box. I'll preheat the oven." He pulls on oven mitts and gingerly picks up the box of cake mix between the palms of them to begin the dangerous task of transporting it over to you without actually touching it.

Sometimes you don't think you get your best bro's bad case of JOPHABOIA. And then you think about the shape you'll be arranging these cupcakes in.

John places the mix in front of you and turns to babysit the Egberts' severely overworked oven.

**Dave: Read the directions.**

You do so, peering critically at the box through your shades. It seems simple enough. There are even little pictures to help you out.

Yeah, you got this cake in the bag.

**Dave: Get the cake out of the bag.**

You carefully snip open the plastic bag containing the cake mix with some kitchen scissors, even though the current SHITTY SWORD in your captchalog would be faster. You need this stuff in the bowl, not dusting off the atmosphere. You pour it in and stuff the empty bag into the empty box. So far so good.

**Dave: Measure the water and oil.**

This isn't so hard after all. This is basic second grade science lesson measuring. You feel pretty good about how things are going.

**Dave: Add the eggs.**

Aww, yis. This is the part you were looking forward to. You've always been able to crack a mean egg. You pop the carton open and prepare to crack your first egg that will plop when it hits instead of sizzle. However, the particular egg that you crack on the rim of the bowl neither plops nor sizzles.

It goes BANG.

**Dave: Hit the deck.**

You instinctively hug the laminate of the kitchen floor even as multicolored confetti and small party streamers begin to rain down on you like a tickertape parade.

"Oh my gosh, sorry Dave!" John uncurls from the protective crouch he went into by the oven and begins gingerly picking confetti out of your cupcake mix. "You know how Dad can be. Do you want me to go aggress?"

**Dave: Abjure.**

"Nah. Takes more than an egg grenade to scare off a Strider."

An EGBERTIAN PRANK WAR might do the trick though. You absolutely do not want to get caught in this house when those two pull out the big guns. Even your flash-step can't save you, as you've discovered on several occasions. Last time that happened it took you forever to get the shaving cream out of your nose and ears.

John smiles apologetically. "Okay. Here, let me get you the hand mixer and you can—"

The hand mixer's beaters have been replaced with ADORABLE PINWHEELS.

John's eyes narrow. "Are you sure you don't want me to aggress?"

**Dave: Abjure once more.**

"Fight the pull, Egbert. I know all of your little impish impulses are telling you to, but you have to resist. You are the boss of your Prankster's Gambit. Retaliation will open the floodgates so don't rise to the bait."

"Well, okay. You're going to have to use a whisk to mix that, though."

**Dave: Become the WHISK NINJA.**

That batter is quaking in its bowl, you're sure of it. Have a twitchy katana hand apparently has uses in the kitchen as well.

"Wow Dave, that's great!" John laughs. "You don't even need the mixer!"

"What can I say? I'm just multitalented." You continue to whisk for the requisite two minutes, making the batter smooth as a wiggler's non-horned end while John puts the little paper cups into the cupcake pan.

The oven timer beeps.

You carefully pour the batter and proudly hoist the tin, ready to pop that puppy in. Just one more batch to go before you'll have enough cupcakes to ice and begin smuppet construction. You're equally pleased and squeamish about that. "Can you get the oven for me?"

"Sure!" John grabs the oven door, gives it a pull, and—

SPLAT.

The front most burners on the stovetop have popped up and launched out spring-loaded plates of shaving cream. Right into your faces.

Silently, you both pull off your respective eyewear, glasses and shades. Warm shaving cream drips down John's shirt and your apron. There is some in your cupcake tin. HEARTY DAD-LY LAUGHTER drifts through the house.

John's blue eyes narrow to slits behind the shaving cream mask. "Well played, guardian. Well played."

**Dave: Stop the madness.**

"John. John, no. Don't do the thing, John—"

Too late. A disturbingly humorous BEAGLEPUSS exits John's captchalog followed by his FAKE ARMS. Then he's gone, absconding through the house for his daily dad-strife.

You stand motionless in the kitchen, tin of unfulfilled cupcakes in one hand and shaving creamy shades in the other.

… screw it. Maybe Rose's mom knows how to bake these damn things.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are not going to be sorry when your brother ambushes your best friend with an avalanche of smuppet rump. (Or at least not too sorry.)

- / - / - / - / -


End file.
